


Memories of My Madonna

by Secret Memoir (agentj)



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Doyle
Genre: Gen, POV First Person, Pre-Canon, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 22:49:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentj/pseuds/Secret%20Memoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes remembers his mother, the inspiration for his theatrical yearnings, his knowledge of Shakespeare, and the darker days that set him on his path of justice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories of My Madonna

**Author's Note:**

  * For [srichard](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=srichard).



> My mission—a request for Shakespeare's Twelfth Night (Feste and Olivia's relationship) and Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes. I mushed them up and spat them out.

"And here comes the fool!" my lovely madonna cried, reclining upon the couch. As usual, the curtains had been drawn by the servants at her request, leaving the room dark and musky in the midst of a glorious spring day. I can still picture the beams of sunlight stealing through breaks in the curtains, casting clouds of dust that drifted slowly through the room.

My madonna—my mother—lay with her back to the window, her feet tucked together. I remember it well because she had thrown off her rug from her legs, exposing her lilly-white feet, which gave me the impression of her utter vulnerability. Yet she seemed comfortable there, not weak nor sickly as I remember her in later years.

I have read the "experts" who try to decipher my background and who I really am by using my own methods based on the crumbs given them by Sir Arthur. My favourite is that I journeyed to the Americas in my youth with a touring Shakespearean theatre troupe, thus my love for the dramatic, my intimate knowledge of the theatre arts and knowledge of Shakespeare's works. Such speculation couldn't be further from the truth.

In point of fact, from the cradle my mother had read to me the sonnets of Shakespeare. In her youth, she had enjoyed a life of literary and artistic richness, surrounded by poets and painters before she became imprisoned in a life of servitude as wife and mother. Her only outlet now was through her children. Though my brother Mycroft did not bend into the artistic realm, I had, and from the moment I was born, I had given my mother—my Shakespearean madonna—a release from the shackles of her cruel and unyielding husband—my father. It was she who encouraged me to learn the violin, she who taught me the art of make-up and drama. I suppose I owe a good deal of my craft to my mother than my own tenacity to fashion it myself. She was the spark, and I was always her Fool.

This tableau remains despite the years and horrors between—this time of my mother and I in her drawing room. It was the days of sweet innocence, both hers and my own. In that moment, there was no-where else I would rather be than by her side, her entertainer and sole companion.

I parted the curtain separating the bedroom from the sitting room. Behind me, my mother's vanity was a powdery mess. From her stocks I had painted my face a sharp, crisp white, bright rouge on my cheeks (doubtless using lipstick instead of the proper rouge), and my hair slicked back with every ounce of pomade it could hold.

I smiled to see a bit of colour in my mother's cheeks, and I closed the curtains behind me, making a grand bow at my entrance. She clasped her hands together to give me a warm welcome.

"Let's have a song!" she called with some mirth, seeing that I trailed my instrument with me.

Taking my violin in hand, I strummed it as if it were a lute and began to sing:  


> "O mistress mine, where are you roaming?  
> O, stay and hear; your true love's coming,  
> That can sing both high and low:  
> Trip no further, pretty sweeting;  
> Journeys end in lovers meeting,  
> Every wise man's son doth know.
> 
> "What is love? 'tis not hereafter;  
> Present mirth hath present laughter;  
> What's to come is still unsure:  
> In delay there lies no plenty;  
> Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,  
> Youth's a stuff will not endure."

  
My mother's eyes glistened as I sang for her. In my youth, I thought it was for pride, but now I realise the extent of my mother's illness and wonder if perhaps it was some deeper reason. Perhaps she had known the unfolding of the future yet to come, the sadness and the pain.

Now I, too, find that my happy reminiscence is always marred with the memory of another day. Instead of the lazy languid light that streamed from the closed curtains, a grey, drab and cold starkness of winter's light illuminates my mind's eye. I remember the professor's sickly sweet voice telling me to be a good little boy. If I did this for him, he wouldn't tell my parents how dreadfully awful my maths were. So he shall keep his silence in the matter, and so shall I.

But on that day, my mother returned, too sickly she said to ride her carriage to distribute the gifts of the season. In she walked on my own sad tableau: I on my knees before the professor, my lips white and trembling.

Afterward, there had been no need for words. Professor Moriarty had been sent away. For my punishment in the matter, I had been sent away.

I had my holidays at home, of course, but never would they be the same. My father would only talk of Mycroft's great scholarly deeds which were leading him to a good solid ground in society and perhaps even a footing in the government. My mother slipped away, inch by dying inch under my father's cold glare. In the end, even I could not stand to look at him and found solace instead with books and my own endeavours.

I have often wondered if my mother had known some part of the Dark Truth inside me. In the end, I shall never know. Were she still alive, I do not know how I could have broached the subject. Could she not speak to me because of Father? Or was she so ashamed of me that she and I never spoke again? As it is, I doubt my father would have allowed me to see her again even if it were still possible.

Though those days are long gone, and my mother nothing more than a memory, I try to remember her on that clear spring day when she was still my madonna, and I her lovely clown, filling her world with mirth and light.


End file.
